


I Only Wanna Do Bad Things To You

by tiigi



Category: Big Time Adolescence (2020)
Genre: Age Difference, Canon Divergence, Dom/sub Undertones, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Praise Kink, kinda angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-02-23 12:48:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23411782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiigi/pseuds/tiigi
Summary: Mo sticks around after the party, to help Zeke clean up.
Relationships: Monroe "Mo" Harris/Zeke Presanti
Comments: 13
Kudos: 38





	I Only Wanna Do Bad Things To You

**Author's Note:**

> Here’s... another one :D

Mo sticks around after the party, to help Zeke clean up. There are empty beer bottles and greasy pizza boxes littered all over the floor and the kitchen table, and everybody else has fucked off already, so it’s just the two of them facing the destruction in front of them.

“Man, fuck this,” Zeke sighs, runs a hand through his hair. He smoked a lot tonight, Mo noticed, and now whenever he speaks his voice has a faint rasp to it. Mo hates how attractive he finds it.

“Come on,” Mo rolls his eyes and tugs at Zeke’s arm to get him to stumble forward.

“The longer you leave it–” Mo begins, wondering how he fell into the role of the responsible, mature one, despite being the youngest there.

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Zeke cuts him off. He’s probably heard this speech a hundred times before. Mo rolls his eyes and Zeke gives him a shit eating grin. “Nick wouldn’t make me clean up.”

“Nick didn’t stay around long enough for you to ask.” Mo says pointedly. 

“Whatever,” Zeke peers inside a beer can, shrugs and downs what was left inside. Then he throws it over his shoulder. “You’re such a mom friend.”

Mo doesn’t mind when Zeke says things like this - he really doesn’t. They’ve been hooking up for about six months now, friends for about ten years, so Mo is fairly confident that Zeke would have mentioned it by now if he didn’t want Mo around.

All the same, it kind of stings. It plays on his insecurities at the very least: his worry that he’s not as exciting as the others, not as fun to be around, just there because he’s Zeke’s weird teenage best friend that won’t leave them alone. 

And maybe that’s why he has to ask, has to know. He should leave it alone, should shrug it off and chalk it up to Zeke being drunk and high and stroppy, but there’s a niggling sensation at the back of his mind that has him pushing further. Mo wants Zeke to reassure him in the way that he usually does, and whether or not he should want that at all is another matter entirely. 

“You still like me better than Nick, though, right?” Mo hates how pathetic he sounds when he asks questions like that, how desperate for praise and approval he is. Zeke would never lay himself out like that, would never be so vulnerable, but it’s the fact that it is Zeke he’s talking to that allows Mo to be vulnerable in the first place.

A slow smile spreads across Zeke’s face, teeth bared, eyes dark. “Course I do,” he murmurs, stepping closer, rubbing the pad of his thumb across Mo’s bottom lip, and Mo knows what always comes next. “Of course I do, you’re my boy. I like you best, Momo.”

It’s disgusting how quickly those words have him hard and desperate, breathless and leaning into Zeke’s touch. They’ve been friends for practically as long as Mo can remember, so Zeke knows exactly how to play him, how to say the right things and have Mo wrapped around his little finger like Mo is still the same hero worshipping nine year old that he was when they first met.

Zeke’s hand slips down from Mo’s face to cup his neck instead, thumb settling over his Adam’s apple, fingers curling possessively around his throat. Mo swallows and feels Zeke press down, apply pressure, feels the corresponding pressure in his lungs as he struggles to get in enough air.

“You know that, right? You know that you’re my boy?” Zeke asks in that same soft, wheedling voice. Mo doesn’t understand any of this - they’ve been doing it for a few months now and he still gets confused as to why his head goes empty and his limbs go heavy and pliant whenever Zeke talks to him like that.

“Mhm,” Mo replies feebly, nodding his head and letting his eyes slip closed. Zeke presses closer and then spins them around. Gently, Zeke lifts Mo’s arms over his head and peels his t-shirt off, hand heading instinctively for where Mo’s tattoo still stands out against the pale expanse of his skin. He knows it gets Zeke hard sometimes, seeing his mark on Mo’s skin. Mo remembers one time where Zeke had spread him out and fucked him slow, deep, with his teeth sunk into Mo’s chest around those words. There had been a dark, wine-stain bruise over the tattoo for a good week before it even began to fade.

“You can do better than that, sweetheart,” Zeke continues, his fingers drifting a little further down to toy with Mo’s nipple. It feels so sensitive in the cool air that his toes curl against the floor and he has to bite down on his bottom lip to keep from moaning.

“I need to hear you say it.” Zeke says, tilting Mo’s chin up suddenly and looking into his eyes, all innocent and insistent. “C’mon, baby, tell me what I want to hear.”

Mo takes in a deep, shuddering breath, past the lump in his throat, and closes his eyes as he exhales. His cock is so hard in his pants that it’s beginning to ache and Zeke knows this, is deliberately staying away from it just to get Mo needy and crying, to mould him like putty in Zeke’s big hands.

“I’m your boy,” Mo sniffs, looks up at Zeke from under his eyelashes and sighs. “Just me.”

Zeke grins, fierce and possessive. “Yeah you are,” he agrees, and applies gentle pressure on Mo’s shoulders until he falls to his knees. Zeke sinks down onto the couch and spreads his legs, already unbuttoning his jeans and pushing them past his hips. 

“You’re my good boy,” he says, wrapping a hand around his dick and stroking himself a few times before beckoning for Mo to get closer. “Why don’t you come suck my cock, hmm?”

“Yeah,” Mo breathes, tears clumped in his eyelashes. It always feels so intense when they do it like this, so overwhelming that sometimes he has all these emotions and nowhere to put them until he just...cries.

“Yeah,” Zeke says soothingly. “You’re doing so good, Mo.”

Mo’s done this enough times now to know how Zeke likes it best. He slips his mouth over the tip of Zeke’s cock and sucks gently, works his tongue over the head and tastes precome on his tongue. It’s gross, but he knows Zeke loves it when he swallows. 

Zeke rests a hand on the top of Mo’s head and curls his fingers into his hair, leading him further down carefully until his lips meet the tight ring of his fingers around the base of Zeke’s cock. Zeke groans and his hips jump - Mo gags and coughs and drools spit and come down his chin. When he looks up, Zeke is already watching him with a piercing gaze.

“Why don’t you come up here, huh?” Zeke beckons Mo closer and he stands on shaky legs, reaches out and clasps Zeke’s hand.

Zeke tugs Mo down onto the sofa and rolls overtop him, tilting his chin up again and kissing down his neck. Mo fucking loves Zeke’s lips - the way they purse around a cigarette, the way they feel against the underside of Mo’s jaw, the way they stretch around Mo’s cock; it’s safe to say that Zeke’s lips kickstarted Mo’s oral fixation. 

“Let’s get these off,” Zeke’s fingers scrabble at the waistband of Mo’s jeans and he helps him wriggle out of them. Mo tries to prop himself up on his elbows but Zeke thrusts his thigh in between Mo’s legs, grinds down against Mo’s erection. 

“Zeke,” Mo bites his lip and screws his eyes shut, embarrassed about being so easily affected. Zeke slips a hand inside Mo’s boxers and wraps around his cock, strokes him slow and teasing. Mo’s hips jump and Zeke uses his free hand to hold them down, grip so tight that Mo knows there will be bruises in the shape of Zeke’s fingerprints by tomorrow.

“You still open?” Zeke’s voice is low and hoarse. His fingers, when they press against Mo’s hole and push forward, are blunt and thick. Mo nods desperately and manages to kick his underwear off and onto the floor. They did this last night, and the night before, after the others left and it was just the two of them again. To Mo, it feels like they never get enough of each other.

Mo is still open from before but Zeke still fucks him on his fingers anyway, likes to feel Mo tremble around him. Mo wraps one arm around Zeke’s neck and with the other hand fumbles with the zip of his jeans, trying to get him out of his clothes whilst simultaneously focusing on not coming too soon. Zeke laughs at his efforts.

“You want it that bad, Mo?” He asks, taunting. Zeke likes to feel in charge, Mo thinks, of at least this aspect of his life. Mo can’t blame him for it - not when everything else seems to be so chaotic for him - so he lets it happen. He likes it. He lets Zeke taunt him and tease him and fuck him until he’s crying because it makes Zeke feel powerful, and he’s always happiest when he feels powerful.

“Want it,” Mo gasps as Zeke’s fingers brush a spot inside of him that has him shuddering. His vision whites out for a second and when he comes to, he realises he’s whining, long and high pitched and needy. “Please, Zeke.”

“Okay, sweetheart,” Zeke murmurs, sliding his hands up the inside of Mo’s thighs and spreading his legs wide, whorishly wide. Mo’s chest shudders with every breath. “Gonna fuck you now. Gonna give you what you want.”

The first stretch of Zeke’s cock inside him is always breathtaking. Mo whimpers, fists his hand in the fabric of Zeke’s t-shirt and stuffs the other one in his mouth, bites down on his knuckles so he can’t scream. Zeke feels so fucking good inside him and all Mo can do is wrap his legs around Zeke’s waist and keep breathing. Zeke’s thrusts rock the sofa and jostle Mo around.

“Thought I was gonna fuckin’ die tonight with how bad I wanted you,” Zeke holds himself up with one hand flat on the cushion next to Mo’s head. The other he wraps around Mo’s neck, palm resting lightly over his Adam’s apple, forcing his face to tilt upwards. “Looked so fucking cute, wanted to bend you over in front of everyone.”

Mo has no idea if this is true or not - he’s always got the feeling that Zeke is embarrassed, if not of Mo himself then at least the nature of their relationship - but he wants to believe it so badly that he pushes the doubt from his mind and thrusts his hips down to meet Zeke’s cock.

“You gonna come now?” Zeke’s fingers pull at Mo’s bottom lip and the pad of his thumb presses harshly into Mo’s cheek. Mo can taste himself when Zeke’s fingers slide across his tongue and it’s disgusting, it should be so fucking disgusting, but Mo lets his mouth fall open wider and he moans for it and he comes.

Zeke keeps fucking him through it, holds him still and steady as he chases his own orgasm. Mo loves him with every fibre of his being, holds him close, cradles Zeke’s head in the crook of his neck as his hips slow down and his body tenses and he comes inside Mo. 

“You okay?” Zeke mumbles, when he finally catches his breath. It’s always uncomfortable after he’s pulled out and Mo is left cold and sticky and gross, but it’s worth it to see the dopey, blissed out smile on Zeke’s face. 

“Yeah,” Mo says. His voice is a little raspy and his throat is a little sore, there's come inside him and all over his stomach. Zeke sometimes likes to send him home like this, denies him a shower so that he’s dirty when he next sees his family; it’s probably another pissing contest between Zeke and Mo’s father, but it’s a hot one so he lets it slide.

“You need a lift home tonight or you staying here?” Zeke calls over his shoulder, heading to the kitchen. Mo sits up on the couch and tries to pull himself together. He hooks a finger through his boxers and slips them on, trying to smooth his hair down so it doesn’t look like he just got fucked. 

“Um,” he takes a moment to gather his thoughts. Maybe Zeke really did just fuck his brains out. “No, I’ve gotta go home. My parents’ll kill me if I stay out all night again.”

“Fuck it,” Zeke reappears, unashamedly naked, holding a half empty bottle of vodka. He takes a swig, winces, and does it again. Mo watches with an inexplicably heavy heart. 

“Tell them you’re staying here,” Zeke shrugs, like this is a simple solution. “They love me.”

“They don’t,” Mo snickers, trying to find something to wipe his stomach off with without having to get up. Eventually he just uses a cushion, because he knows Zeke won’t give a shit. 

“They don’t?”

“I’ve told you this before,” Mo roots around for his clothes and starts pulling them on. He sneaks up behind Zeke at the kitchen counter, where he’s unsuccessfully looking for a clean glass, and stands on his tiptoes, kissing the nape of Zeke’s neck. He waits with nervous anticipation for Zeke to frown, to step away, to tell him again that _we don’t do that shit, Mo, not afterwards_ , but the words never come. Mo bites back a grin.

“They think you’re a bad influence.”

“Bullshit,” Zeke gives up on looking for a glass and drinks straight from the bottle again. He catches sight of Mo’s disbelieving expression, frowns in confusion, and offers him a drink. Mo shakes his head, amused.

“I’ve gotta get going. I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?” Mo hates how hopeful he sounds. He feels vulnerable, exposed, his feelings on display. He doesn’t know whether it’s a blessing or a curse that Zeke is so fucking oblivious.

“Yeah, course,” Zeke nods, ruffles Mo’s hair like an asshole. Mo ducks out of the way and tries not to blush when Zeke’s naked body brushes up against his. For some reason, it’s so much more embarrassing when it’s not sexual.

“I’ll pick you up from your house.” Zeke tells him. “It’ll give your parents an opportunity to say hi.”

“Dick!” Mo yells back as he’s leaving. Before he closes the door behind him, he takes one last look. Zeke’s house is still a mess - they didn’t get very far with tidying up, after all - but there’s something else as well. It seems smaller and darker than usual, lonelier. Zeke standing alone in his kitchen, drinking vodka straight from the bottle… it seems sadder. Mo wants to go back in and hold him, sleep with him, just pull the blankets over their bodies and stay like that until this feeling passes.

But he has to get home. His parents will kill him if he stays out all night again. 

He closes the door on his way out.


End file.
